We Had Today
by destroyold
Summary: An AU where Jim and Sherlock were high school best friends. The story takes place between Hounds and after The Fall. Different points of view, lot of angsty thinking and there are some dialogues from the TV Show so you've been warned! They are pure spoilers.
1. Prologue

**AUTHOR NOTES**: It's safe for me to say that none of these characters are of my property, they all belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's brightness, and the way this is written was according to the personalities they portray in BBC Sherlock, which is not mine either, or there would be a lot of gay porn. This was just written for fun, mainly because I needed to give one of my best friends a gift so I decided to write this. I also want to thank my soulmate **Julia**, who supported me on this little project of mine and was my beta at the same time. Oh, ¡feliz cumpleaños, Cami-Xu!

Alright, thanks for reading and well, here we go, then!

* * *

"Are you alright?" The question came out of nowhere, as usual, but it was not strong enough to drop him out of his thoughts. "Sherlock!"

Our favorite detective was sitting in front of his flatmate and friend, Doctor John Watson, having some scrambled eggs and tea as his weekly breakfast.  
Since he solved the case brought by the young man, Henry Knight, and made the decision of finally telling John what he meant to him, he couldn't stop thinking about this friendship between them. It felt strange, to feel and care about someone, even though this was not news to Sherlock. As a human being, he had some secrets he'd never tell, things he'd never reveal, unless it was necessary.  
Why wasn't this feeling a new thing to the consulting detective? Simple, obvious, as he told himself every day—he had a best friend once, a really good friend, who turned out to be his enemy and equal years after they parted.

"I need a case," was all Sherlock said, once again hiding his face behind a book he was reading.

He wasn't able to look at John right after he told the blond man a lie, and every time started to behave like a child. There was something about John's look that didn't let him, or maybe it just was this honesty he had been used to during all these years. He never lied, except when it was necessary.  
He'd never do something he considered _wrong_. He had principles, too.


	2. The First

It was his first year of high school, boys and girls staring at him oddly, as he was used to. Everything went as normal as it'd get, except for his body. There were freckles on his nose and cheeks, he could see well with his old glasses and Mummy—as he called his mother—lost his tie so he wasn't dressed properly to enter school. There was a long coat to hide the tie detail, though, so he didn't feel so uncomfortable with his appearance.  
He entered the mathematics class, taking the last seat from the row in the center of the classroom, as he usually did in every class. It was part of his routine to see his other classmates' behavior and the things they did at school. He liked observing people, although he didn't like them.  
Taking a look to his watch, he was utterly impressed: fifteen minutes earlier than expected. Mummy's punctuality always failed. It didn't matter how hard she tried because she always arrived late no matter where she was going.

"Excuse me, do you mind if I sit next to you?" A little boy with big eyes and slicked short hair was standing in front of him, staring at him lazily while he chewed some bubble gum.

"Er, no; sit down, please." Sherlock replied as this strange boy sat next to him. After getting rid of his bag, the boy with bright brown eyes stared at him, lifting his hand towards his new classmate, waiting for it to be shaken.

"James Moriarty." The boy smiled as Sherlock shook his hand quickly with a strong movement and a cold look. The youngest member of the Holmes family didn't care about people unless they were dead or suspicious elements on a case. "But call me Jim, because the only person that calls me 'James' is my father when he's mad at me."

"Sherlock Holmes," the young detective replied, sort of impressed by Jim's ability to make him feel comfortable.

When he caught Moriarty grinning, a wall was immediately built by Holmes, who looked away to the front of the classroom, ignoring his classmate. People just couldn't understand that it wasn't his fault to have a name like that.

"Well, hello then, Sherlock." The "your name is really funny" comment and the snorting never came; they were replaced by a sincere look and a friendly smile coming from the boy. This was the first time someone didn't make fun of his name. This was a good way to start high school indeed.

Sherlock just nodded, staring at their professor, who was telling the rest of the class about the content of what they would be learning that year. That was the moment when he knew this year would be different somehow. Judging by the excitement on this bloke's face and voice, he supposed he'd be someone to work with.

"And what are your plans for the future?" he heard Jim say with that annoying voice of his.

He froze. Boys of their age did not usually talk about their future or what they wanted to be. They just said it once and then forgot the subject until some random adult asked them about it.

"A detective," Sherlock replied, coldly. In half an hour of meeting this Moriarty bloke, he still couldn't understand why he was so bloody interested in him when no one else was.

"That sounds really boring, Sherlock. Helping out on Scotland Yard cases, surrounded by idiots…"

"I'm not planning to be one of them, though." The curly haired boy stared at Jim, boredom slowly running through his body. "It's not like being a mathematics professor is going to be much better."

"Oh, I see." As Jim whispered these words, Sherlock could notice a sparkle hidden in his eyes and a little smile on his lips. "You're a proper genius too."

"Alright, what do you want?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the bell that had just rung and the rest of the students in his classroom going to their respective classes.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes," was all Jim said before leaving, smiling with pleasure.  
It was the first time someone had shown any kind of interest in him. It's not like he cared about people around him, but there was this strong force that obligated him to stare at the boy that was leaving with serenity.

Sherlock knew this guy wanted something else; his knowledge, maybe. He wouldn't know until a week later, when Jim sat by his side one more time, this time completely silent but distracted, as Sherlock noticed, waiting for his classmate to speak to him. It never happened, as you might know. Sherlock couldn't talk, not with all the thinking he had to do during the case he was trying to solve.

"Sherlock," the high voice sounded behind the classroom door. He was leaving to his chemistry class, but someone had decided to stop him.

"Jim."

"You left this on your desk," the shorter boy said, handing Sherlock his chemistry book and the periodic table. "I don't think you need them though."

"Thank you," Sherlock said before leaving Jim behind.

When he got to classroom A1, he sat in his usual desk, opening his book to find a piece of paper with really strange handwriting scrawled on it. It was an invitation, coming from this boy with puppy eyes and a Cheshire cat smile.

"See you at the pool after school, Jim."

Good. If someone looked for Sherlock Holmes, they'd always have an opportunity to meet him again, and Sherlock had to admit that this guy was as intriguing as he was to him.


	3. Friendships

He had constantly found himself thinking about his and John's friendship, which usually looked more like a serious relationship—a married couple in the eyes of other people. He had never gotten this far with anyone, but John had everything he needed to feel wholeheartedly alive.  
He was more like his doctor, indeed. He was his flatmate, the only person who dared sharing something with him without leaving him before the time expected. He was his saviour. Even though he had never really liked the idea of turning people into higher beings, he always ended up admitting to himself that he wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for John's bravery. And over these two, he was his best friend, someone he could always count on, no matter what, knowing that he would always be there for him, that he would never leave him.  
John was the person he had needed as a friend his whole life. He was completely and utterly sure that if they had met before, this relationship could've continued until these days, but it didn't really matter, because he had him, just as much as John had Sherlock.  
And now John was sitting next to him, so close that he was sure they were breathing from each other's exhales. There was a cup of tea in his hands, as usual, and he was wearing one of the jumpers Sherlock hated the most, but accepted on him. There was no way he would ever be able to change it, after all.

"Have I ever told you those things are awful?" Sherlock had commented once, smiling brightly at a sleepy John who rested on his armchair, reading some newspapers.

"Have I ever told you how much I hate it when your face appears on a newspaper cover?"

"I still don't know why it bothers you more than it does to me," Sherlock said, his eyes wandering over John's body, trying to collect every new detail about him. That's what he was used to doing ever since they first met. It didn't matter if he wasn't going to remember these details after awhile. He just wanted to observe, to know everything he could about this human being.

"You know exactly why I don't like it, Sherlock. You should start taking little cases, really."

But now there he was, sitting in front of his short friend, enjoying every second of this evening. Sherlock started counting. He would try to enjoy the time he had left with John as much as he was able to. He would never change though. He didn't want to be suspicious; didn't want John to know about his difficulties in life until it was obvious.  
But now that he could compare with this thing he had with John, he would always be able to return to that time when he was sixteen and he had an established friendship with his now archenemy.  
After their meeting at the pool, where they spent the time giving each other some stares and barely talking, they decided to be more than classmates, since both of them realized they had more things in common than expected. But then Sherlock would invite him to some crime scenes, where they always came out from, laughing and commenting how easy it all seemed to be.

"I still don't understand how you two were best friends once, you know?" John put that typical smile on his face, waiting for Sherlock to tell him something else besides "He used to be my friend," or "It doesn't matter. Why do you keep asking?"

"It was just like we are now. Stop asking, John," Sherlock replied, not so sure about the answer he was giving to John. He didn't even notice how John's face changed abruptly, how his eyes became opaque as shoe polish and how he growled with frustration.

"You can't be serious," John whispered, standing up and walking towards his bedroom.  
Sherlock didn't care, though. This wasn't the first time John would storm out of the room, pressuring Sherlock to apologize for whatever he had said or done to him.

"John, don't be so bloody dramatic. We both know it's not your thing," the taller man said, still sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace.

"Don't be so _bloody_ dramatic? Sherlock…" John inhaled, trying to control himself.

"You've just compared me to that bastard… How can you possibly think I'm not going to react this way? Should I become a criminal mastermind and make your life a living hell too?"

"He's just bored, John. Don't make it up like that."

"And now you're justifying his actions. Why don't you just go and live with him?" John was yelling at Sherlock now. His teacup fell out of his hand and broke on the floor. His hands were pressed to his sides, trying to resist doing something worse to his best friend. John perfectly knew they usually fought twice a week, but he had never felt more out of control than right now.

"It's alright, John. I'm sorry."

And that was it; their fight was over, judging by Sherlock's tone and the way he said that. John couldn't do anything but clean up the floor and walk downstairs, where he would talk to Mrs. Hudson and relax a little, watching the telly with her.

The taller man stood up from the floor, walking calmly towards his couch and leaving the place where he was sitting in front of the fireplace and next to his flatmate. The atmosphere they were in a couple of minutes ago was completely ruined by his memories. It wasn't his fault, though. John is a good friend, just like Jim used to be.  
He followed him like nobody else did, they shared ideas, they spent a lot of time in the same room, John was constantly paying attention to Sherlock's stories and they went to the crime scenes together, John never refusing to go with him as his companion. He couldn't understand what was so different about John and Jim, though he didn't really think about the difference between good old Jim and criminal mastermind James Moriarty. They were the same person for Sherlock.


	4. A Reminder

Doctor John Watson came into the flat one day. He was so tired he thought he'd fall asleep on his desk again, congratulating himself for surviving the day without problems and arriving at home quickly, and what he found in the living room wasn't something to be grateful for, not even a little.

"OH, JOHN, YOU ARE FINALLY HERE!" he heard Sherlock yell at him with a notoriously high-pitched voice as he closed the door, his best friend resting on his couch with a big smile spread on his lips and a pair of baby blue eyes staring at him with curiosity.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" He knew he would write about this on his blog later. People would love to read about drunken Sherlock.

"Here, did you know these things are made of multiple colours?" he heard the consulting detective say as he received a post-it from his hand, their bodies a little closer than usual.

"Thank you." John did nothing but frown at the note he was reading. Sherlock's handwriting was so bloody difficult to read and the message was just stupid.

_John, I might be drunk when you arrive. It's an experiment, I need you to observe. – SH._

Well, Sherlock was a genius; he had chosen the worst day to do this. Now John had to cooperate. It was too late to complain—Sherlock had already drunk a bottle of vodka.  
But John didn't understand why he would do this—just stay at home, drunk, wasting time.

"I had a friend who used to like colours… the only friend I've ever had aside of you." Sherlock's baritone voice sounded more like a whisper. So this man was a melancholic type of drunken person then.

"Really? Tell me about him, then," John sighed, sitting Sherlock on the couch and carrying the now empty bottle to their kitchen.

"Jim, you know him!" Sherlock smiled, toying with the fabric of his shirt. "We used to investigate together, and he always observed colours. He always said he liked the shiny ones."

"Don't you want to sleep? You haven't slept for a week and I think that's enough of the alcohol and the old stories now, Sherlock."

"It's alright," the curly haired man replied, smiling brightly at the doctor. "I don't know how I didn't think of him before, it was so obvious."

Oh, so this is an attempt of his to speak his mind for once, John thought, sitting next to his friend and listening to him, not paying attention to anything else.  
Sherlock was lost in his memory. This was the second time he tried to drink alcohol.

The first time was when he was eighteen, after years of friendship with one of the youngest members of the Moriarty siblings; he was on a sleepover at Jim's house as they planned after weeks of Sherlock living at home alone. If it wasn't for his brother Mycroft, he would probably have started living at Jim's. His friend's parents loved him and they also invited him to stay over. He always wondered how people like them liked someone like him.  
It was just the two of them that night; they had planned to discuss some cases and watch some movies about science and detectives.  
They had already carried the snacks and the bottle of soda to their room when Jim suddenly jumped a little and smiled at Sherlock.

"Have you ever tasted alcohol? Not wine, I mean, vodka?" he asked, an innocent look in his eyes and with a wide smile. "My parents aren't coming home tonight. Do you want some? It's delicious."

"If you say so." Sherlock laughed lightly, running towards the kitchen with his friend and taking the bottle of vodka between his hands. It was transparent. He had once mistaken it for water. He had had experience with cases that included problems with alcohol; he had solved a case about a drunken murderer, but he wasn't planning to kill someone there so he wasn't going to lose anything if he tried. Silly thoughts of a teenager—it was natural to be curious.  
They both run again, coming back to Jim's room with two glasses and the bottle that came directly from the bar that was property of Jim's dad. They playfully tackled each other with triumphant smiles and sat on Jim's bed to watch the telly, do some zapping and find something interesting.

"So, shall we start?" Happy faces were born of this question made by the youngest member of the Holmes family, who took one glass between his hands and poured some of this Vodka thing on it, Jim imitating him and grabbing some French fries to eat.

"Cheers!"

The first glass, Sherlock felt nothing. He kept laughing with Jim, analyzing some things in his friend's room, like how many objects of different colours he had. He was trying to deduce which colour was Jim's favorite, which turned out to be orange, judging by the amount of orange stuff he found in the room.

The second glass, Sherlock's vision was a camera in slow motion. Everything seemed to move slowly, though he never tried to get rid of his glass of Vodka, which tasted delicious, to be honest. Apart from his blurred vision, he was speaking with the highest voice he had ever tried to talk with.

The second glass, Sherlock's vision was a camera in slow motion. Everything seemed to move slowly, though he never tried to get rid of his glass of Vodka, which tasted delicious, to be honest. Apart from his blurred vision, he was speaking with the highest voice he had ever tried to talk with.

At the third, Sherlock lost it and started laughing like crazy, telling Jim that some of his shirts reminded him of his "oh, so boring" brother Mycroft and that he hated him a lot. Jim had to hide the glass and the bottle, sending Sherlock to sleep to the other bed. After all he was quite sober compared to the future consulting detective.

All Sherlock was able to remember after that incident was the morning after, when Jim woke him up with some painkillers and a glass of water, since he didn't know what else to do to cure a drunken boy.

"Wake up, Sherlock, it's late," he heard Jim whisper on his ear, and he just responded by turning his back to Jim, as he did every day Mycroft or Mummy woke him up for school since he was seven. It was an action that deserved to be applauded when Sherlock was such a mature boy without alcohol running through his veins.

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock growled, trying to sleep five more minutes, as he used to do.

"No, silly, it's Jim here." _Oh_.

"God, I'm sorry," Sherlock opened his eyes as wide as those plates Mummy had in the kitchen for special events and sat straight up to face his friend, who was beaming at him now.

"It's alright. Here, I hope the pain goes away soon," Jim replied, watching Sherlock swallow the pills and drink the morning-cold water. "You drank a lot last night. I shouldn't have given you a 'free mini-bar' moment. Now you'll suffer for a week. I'm glad you have no cases, Sherlock."

"Sure thing," Sherlock just smiled, trying to remember what might've happened last night. "Sorry, did I do something wrong last night?"

"I still have my pants on, so I suppose you didn't?"

"Oh, shut up." The brunet was now laughing, not without taking his head in his hands. This was the first time he experienced a hangover and he thought his head was going to disappear in any minute or that he was going to die from brain damage.

His head was full of this bloke called James Moriarty, but he perfectly knew he was telling this to his actual best friend, who had let out more than a laugh and had commented how nice Jim seemed to be, according to his point of view.

"Now that you've told me these things, shall we head to bed?" John asked, patience filling his voice. Sherlock seemed to appreciate his enemy more than a bit, now that he remembered.


	5. James

"So, what are we? Friends?" The wide-eyed boy pronounced these words quietly, his hands moving awkwardly on his lap, waiting for his companion to answer his question.

"I don't know, is it alright for you?" Holmes answered, one of his hands touching his lips, palming the area that had been recently touched by someone else's mouth.

It happened so fast. In his defense, he just wanted to know how it really felt. He wanted to feel what other people felt, and it didn't matter if they knew about this later.  
It was a funny experience for Sherlock; he didn't feel like flying, his stomach didn't get tight and his hands definitely didn't sweat, and obviously, it wasn't going to happen to him. He just tried something new. He experimented.  
On the other hand, our dear Jim did feel something. Nothing deep, though. It just felt nice, it felt right—knowing that he was Sherlock's first kiss made him feel powerful somehow. After all, he was the one who got the chance to have his lips without doing much, and he was sure no one else would be able to do the same for ages. This was Sherlock, not a boy with usual needs.

"It's fine, yes," Jim smiled. "Perfectly fine. Uh, you don't want to talk about…this, do you?"

"It was great. Now I have lots of questions to answer myself through science; it was really interesting. Thanks Jim." Sherlock smirked back at Jim, slightly shaking his head and staring at his shoes. "I'm waiting for my dear friend, dopamine, to give me something, though."

And here's where it all really starts, where their story begins progressing naturally. Let me tell you some things about Jim first.

James Moriarty, born and raised in Harrow into a large family, was a young and quiet person. He loved mathematics. He was sure they were what the world was made of, they were the center of life; nothing would ever make sense to him if it didn't have something to do with math, as he usually said to his mother, but she was as ordinary and useless as the rest of people were… are.  
He never planned to make friends; actually, he hated people. They were so bloody boring. Also, he had some enemies at his school, like one of the most popular boys, this Sebastian Moran bloke. Didn't Jim hate him! But, obviously, when he crossed the door of his math class and found the genius sitting alone, just as he was, something into his mind clicked. A big smile appearing on his face and his hands moving from left to right and vice versa, he crossed his fingers and decided to talk to him, to be his friend.  
After all, he had read some things about this Sherlock Holmes, the youngest detective of their generation and one of the greatest minds in the whole country. He knew exactly who this boy was.

"You're quiet," Sherlock whispered, analyzing Jim from head to toe with a critical gaze and a small smile, his deep blue eyes suddenly darkening.

"You're impatient," Jim retorted, fiercely approaching the taller boy with a suggestive smile, Sherlock going speechless in seconds.

James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes always were equals, since the day they met, the first one constantly using funny ways to make their friendship more interesting than just honesty and seriousness. Holmes never made him feel ordinary, also, considering him someone special.

"You're thinking," Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, smiling one more time at Moriarty.

And Jim's brain was always connected with Sherlock's. After some time adjusting themselves to each other, they made it. Both of them were able to support the other easily when it came to just thinking, even though Jim was better at planning than deducing, which brought them to complement each other almost perfectly.

"You keep talking," Jim replied, covering his friend's lips with his one more time. They would do the talking later.

That was the first time Sherlock did nothing but follow Moriarty, getting lost in what he did without thinking about the consequences.  
And it would definitely not be the last.

Now, years later, Sherlock and Jim sat in different places, their minds connected, both of them thinking the same: the consulting criminal would lead the way all over again, as far as they were able to deduce and plan, respectively.

"What happened? Is she okay? Oh my God. Right, yes, I'm coming." John got up all of a sudden after falling asleep on the table in front of Sherlock. He looked scared obviously. The plan was going perfectly fine.

"What is it?"

"Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson's been shot." Sherlock noticed John's voice weaken slightly. He dared to ask how, John reacting just like he knew he would, "Probably one of the killers you managed to attract—Jesus, Jesus! Sherlock, she's dying. Let's go."

"You go. I'm busy."

John couldn't believe it. Mrs. Hudson was their landlady. She had done risky favours for Sherlock. She'd cared a lot about them and he just paid her back like this. He didn't know if Sherlock was kidding or being serious. He still trusted him.  
_Oh, John Watson. Poor idiot_.

"Thinking," Sherlock continued, avoiding John's gaze. "I need to think."

"You need to…? Doesn't she mean anything to you?" John's breath was caught in his throat; it became even harder to breathe when he saw Sherlock ignoring him. "You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her!"

"She's my landlady." Sherlock just shrugged it off, still not looking John in the eyes.

"She's dying… you machine—" John stopped talking; he wasn't in the mood to argue with Sherlock. It wasn't the right time to do it. "Sod this. Sod this! You stay here if you want, on your own."

"Alone is what I have, alone protects me." It hurt. If it wasn't for this bloody need to know what the hell Moriarty was planning, this wouldn't have happened and he would be staring at John as he always did and he wouldn't be building a big fat lie. Christ.

"Nope. Friends protect people."

With this, John was gone and his cell phone was ringing. One new message from Jim. It was time to go and play outside.


	6. John

"Is everything okay now with the police? Has Sherlock sorted it all out?"  
He just stood still in front of Mrs. Hudson, who remained talking to him like she always did.

_Sherlock_. Something clicked in his mind. The bastard just wanted to distract him. That meant he was in danger right now.  
Doctor Watson ran out of 221B Baker Street at the same time a taxi came in his direction. At least he wasn't having much trouble with the universe around him.  
But then someone else came to get into the cab before him. Fuck.

"No, no, no, no! Police!" John yelled at the man that was going to take his place. "Sort of." And with that he got into the taxi and closed the door, giving the cabbie the instructions to go to St. Bart's. _Quickly_.  
He didn't know what was happening, though it seemed to have something to do with Moriarty. Again.

"Damn it, Sherlock. Why can't you just stop wanting all of this to be so bloody clever for you, so goddamn entertaining?" he found himself whispering, his head touching the window, his eyes observing for once how innocent the London streets looked compared to this problem his friend got into.

He tried calling but it was impossible for him to contact the consulting detective. The bastard was intelligent; he obviously had his cell phone on silent so no one would bother him.  
This was the first time he hated himself for being so touchingly loyal, as Jim called him once. But he owed the man a lot, and he wouldn't miss an opportunity to save him. Holmes was his friend.

When he got to St. Bart's, he ran out of the cab and felt his mobile phone ringing and vibrating in his hand.

"Hello?"

"John." Oh, it was Sherlock. _Fantastic_.

"Hey, Sherlock. Are you okay?" John was running towards the entrance of St. Bart's when Sherlock stopped him, telling him to turn around and not move from where he was standing.

When John did, he immediately regretted doing so. _No shit_, now Sherlock was apologizing and this wasn't going well for John Watson.  
Sherlock was standing on the rooftop of the hospital and saying to him that he invented Jim Moriarty. He knew Sherlock was lying to him. He wasn't sure, though. One thing about Sherlock Holmes was that he never lied, but he wasn't able to prove he was doing so.

He could be an idiot and an ordinary person in Sherlock's point of view, but he knew, God, he completely knew this was Moriarty's fault.

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

It was meant to be a whisper. It was actually meant to be something he was just going to say to himself inside his head, because he couldn't believe all of this: Sherlock blaming himself, Sherlock apologizing, Sherlock lying to him, John, who was his friend, flatmate and companion.  
Now he was saying the newspapers were right, that he wanted him to tell everyone that all of this, the cases, the villain of the story, the kidnapping, everything was a lie. What was going on with Sherlock?

"Shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met…" John inhaled, closing his eyes. "The first time we met you knew all about my sister."

"Nobody could be that clever." Bloody idiot, Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be saying this. And this wasn't a lie, he wasn't a lie, he was just lying to him. Don't believe in what he says now, Watson.

"You could." John Watson didn't say these words; he exhaled them, because he wasn't planning on holding back the answers to all the lies Sherlock was telling him right now.

He couldn't believe his ears anymore. He didn't want to hear all this shit, so he tried to walk and continue with what he was trying to do, but Sherlock stopped him once again with a determined tone and the exact words of a suicidal person. There was no turning back now.  
He returned to where he was standing, his legs trembling and trying to reach Sherlock with his right hand. He would do what Sherlock asked, and everything was going to be alright. Yes.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," Sherlock said on the phone, his hand imaginary touching, feeling John's. This was the last time he would get to do something like this before leaving. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"_Dear John:  
This is the last time you'll get to be 'near' me. Now you'll have to live on your own once again. I can't promise you anything. I can't say I will come back for you. But I'll save you, at least."_

These words were everything Sherlock was thinking of now that he was watching his friend from this tall place.

"This phone call, it's…" He hesitated, trying to find the proper words to say. "It's my note."

This is what people do, don't they? Leaving notes before they die, giving signals to other people, letting others know this is the last time they'll get to see or talk to them while they're alive. It's alright, John would understand. John was going to be alright.

"Leave a note when?" John tried to stop Sherlock from saying stupid things. It didn't succeed, though. Now he was saying goodbye and tearing his mobile phone apart. Sherlock, _no_.

All he saw before reality was this blond man standing in front of a stranger with a mop of curls on its head and a tall coat, asking him private questions about his life and God, did he just ask Afghanistan or Iraq? Wait a minute, now he was solving crimes with him, having dinner with him, arguing with him and living with him. He said his name was Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. They were now living in 221B Baker Street with their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. He had shot a crazy cabbie for this man; some bloke offered him money to spy on him. They saved each other and solved cases, he frequently wrote a blog about their adventures and Sherlock just made fun of how much of an ordinary person he was most of the time. But he told him he was his only friend, so he might be important to him. So this blond man, who appeared to be himself, was relevant in Sherlock Holmes' life, who certainly claimed to be a consulting detective, but what the hell was that? According to him, it was a person who Scotland Yard needed help almost in every case they had, because they were just a group of lazy idiots. Alright, now this so called Sherlock Holmes was falling from a rooftop and this blonde man, John Watson, was remembering his life ever since he met this mysterious man.  
And now he started running towards him, thinking he would save him. He would do something else than just watch him die. He fell to the ground. He was sure he felt something crash into him, but he didn't feel anything at all. He just stood up and continued walking towards him. There were a lot of people around the corpse of his best friend. He tried to go further and told them he was a doctor, and then cried that he was his friend, not really getting to do something else than seeing a face covered in blood and pale white skin beneath his hands. He tried to take his pulse, but one of the women in the small crowd took his hand in hers and didn't let him stand too close to Sherlock's body to then carry him all the way to the morgue and leave him there, alone, kneeling on the cold tiles. It was too late and he would do nothing else but cry for what he once had and now missed.


	7. Epilogue

He had spent the whole day sitting on a bench near St. Bart's, where now his body was replaced by some stupid idiots from Scotland Yard investigating about this. Lestrade had told him they found another suicide on the rooftop of the hospital, but why would he care about this?

"Excuse me, sir." A tall blonde man suddenly appeared in front of him. "May I sit next to you? I'm waiting to see a body in the morgue, too."

John just nodded; he didn't seem to be someone from the press so he continued staring at his hands, waiting to—wait, how did he know he was waiting for it, too?

"How did you know?" John asked, staring at the man sitting next to him. "Who are you?"

"Sebastian Moran." The other man had a little smile on his face, though his eyes expressed how hurt he was. Maybe this guy lost some friend or someone of his family and wanted to talk to somebody, "You are the famous John Watson, are you not?"

"Just John Watson. Yes, hi," the army doctor replied awkwardly; it wasn't in his plans to be a famous person.

"I'm sorry; I saw it on the telly a while ago, before coming here." Moran whispered affectionately, "I know how you're feeling right now. A friend of mine died here some hours ago, too."

John wasn't going to talk about it; he wasn't going to remember and tell the world how much he was suffering, so he just tried not to continue this conversation. But then Lestrade popped into his head, John remembering the exact words he had said some minutes ago.

"There was another suicide. It seems like he was with another person before falling," Lestrade said cautiously. He didn't want to hurt John. "A short man, the face of a child, hair slicked, black suit… he looks a lot like—"

"I don't want to know, Lestrade," John had said to him before turning back to get some coffee. "Let me know when I'm able to see Sherlock's corpse."  
_A friend?_

"Excuse me, who was your friend?" John opened his eyes as wide as plates, staring at Moran with anger.

"James Moriarty, sir. We've spent years being friends."

"I doubt it. He didn't seem like a man who's ever had a friend," John scoffed, not daring to stop staring at this man, who seemed really surprised by what he was saying.

"I know he was having a hard time lately. I was out of London, so I didn't have the time to see him or talk to him just so he would stay _safe_."

"Gentlemen, may I interrupt your conversation?" Lestrade's voice cut through the tension caused by the moment with a strong whisper, holding the army doctor by the shoulders. "John, you can enter St. Bart's now. I'm sorry for the waiting, we needed to analyze the scene," he continued, staring into John's eyes before hugging him.

"I guess you're leaving now?" asked Moriarty's friend innocently.  
John turned on his back, staring at Sebastian Moran. This seemed to be worse than he imagined it would be; the bloke didn't look like he was involved with Moriarty. How would Jim have ordinary friends? He was _a lot_ like Sherlock.

"Uh, yes. See you soon, then," John replied, extending a hand to shake Moran's before leaving. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

_Oh_, he thought. _I forgot I'm an ordinary friend of his._


End file.
